


The Collected Papers Of Morgan Harris

by TimeCloneMike



Category: Cultist Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: Aspirant Legacy, Despair, Epistolary, Essays, Fascination, Occult Principles, Other, journal excerpts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeCloneMike/pseuds/TimeCloneMike
Summary: Those who know will understand.As will the Suppression Bureau.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	The Collected Papers Of Morgan Harris

**June 28**

Disaster upon disaster! My position at the Stock And Trade has been terminated without warning or cause. I dropped nothing, broke nothing, damaged nothing, stole nothing; was neither rude nor tardy, and all for naught. Perhaps I should have taken the opportunity to purloin something after all, given the paucity of my wages, but the point is moot now.

I can wait no longer. The pain in my jaw now makes it impossible to sleep. I have gathered what money I have managed to save and am seeking the advice of a medical professional, if I can find one.

**June 29**

My mouth is bloody and sore, but the offending tooth is removed. In a few days I may be able to eat solid food again, provided I can afford any. It has been some time since I have eaten anything but Rumford’s Soup and small beer. My appetite suffered severely these past weeks, and the rest of my person with it.

I have not attempted to search for gainful employment; between the swelling and blood and the muddled powers of speech, most proprietors would call for me to be removed from the premises before I could make my case. The time has been spent curled up in bed, or renewing my acquaintanceship with my favorite authors.

**June 30**

Nicole’s locket is missing.

I spent most of the day wandering the city in a haze that had nothing to do with the fog, or the factory smoke. Despair tugged at my ankles like an ill tempered dog. I spent the better part of an hour standing on the bank of the Thames, wondering if I should just walk out and let the river claim me.

I may not escape the song of the sirens next time.

**July 1**

The first of the month; a time for new beginnings, perhaps? I have heard through second and third hand accounts (haha) that the actuarial firm of Glover And Glover is constantly in need of new clerks. It appears that there is a particular senior clerk with exacting standards responsible for the high rate of turnover among the junior clerks, either dismissing them himself or driving them to quit.

This will not be a pleasant experience, but it will allow me to satisfy both landlord and grocer. And the work should not be terribly taxing to somebody with my aptitude for numbers and calculation.

**July 2**

What a catastrophe! There were constables and detectives and newspaper reporters and all manner of busybodies outside of Glover and Glover this morning; it seems that one of the junior clerks decided enough was enough and stabbed his supervisor to death with a fountain pen. I left once I understand the reason for the upheaval, as I doubt that hiring additional staff is a high priority under these circumstances.

The last of my money has gone to purchasing a sack of potatoes. This will have to be enough to stave off hunger until I can find a job… and retain it long enough to see some form of remuneration.

**July 3**

A lucky break at last; the hospital is recruiting additional staff in menial positions such as porters and orderlies. I start tomorrow.

The firm of Glover and Glover, meanwhile, sees its fortunes spiral ever downward, and I find myself strangely compelled to seek out details as they become available. Despite the open-and-shut nature of the murder of one Mr. Alden, as half the people in the building saw and heard everything firsthand, the police have continued to poke and prod and many old secrets are being unearthed.

The firm has always had a reputation for exacting standards, both in the precision of their work and the conduct of their staff regardless of position or seniority, but they did not ever attempt to leverage this in advertisements. The prevailing mood was that such self-aggrandizement was itself counter to the impression they wanted to convey to their customers and the public.

As it turns out, the firm shunned all attention and scrutiny precisely because that impression was as thin as a coat of paint over cracking plaster. If the newspaper accounts are accurate (and tongues of the other patrons at the local ale house are to be believed) then every single member of the board of trustees was involved in some sort of illegal or immoral activity. Embezzlement, fraud, debaucheries of unprecedented variety, underworld connections, and who knows what else.

**July 4**

Pushing gurneys, winding bandages, loading and moving and unloading boxes. My arms are lead, my feet are burning coals, my back is creaking lumber. And tomorrow I get to do it all again. The smell of antiseptic compounds can never completely wash away the smell of blood and rot and excrement. If I was not already famished I would not be able to even consider cooking supper.

My uncertain finances have me eyeing some of the contents of the storage cupboards, but I cannot afford to take any chances when I have not even seen my first payday. The memory of the Stock And Trade will not leave me, though. I must secure some sort of contingency.

**July 5**

When Kipling wrote that the female of the species was more deadly than the male, I suspect that he may have been writing about nurses. Every one of them is banded iron in word and deed and temperament. And why not? They are the ones charged with the critical minutiae of the well-being of the ill, from changing sheets to changing dressings. A surgeon or physician that cannot save a patient does not have to cart that poor soul’s corpse down to the morgue.

Even so, I am left to wonder if the lack of bedside manner is entirely a matter of hardened hearts and calcified souls. Perhaps it is projection, perhaps it is memory, perhaps it is something else entirely, but it gives me something to focus on besides the strain on my body. And leverage on or against somebody who has established themselves here may save my job, should budgets (or patience) wear thin once again.

**July 6**

Agnes Purity, or “Purdy” as the less articulate staff call her. She rules the nurses assigned to my shift with a fist of cast iron. There is nothing redeeming in her person or character or history, neither the compassion of a healer, nor the practicality of the chemist, nor the grim necessity of the barber-surgeon. Silence and economy of motion are the only virtues in her eyes, while compassion and mercy are mortal sins.

This much I have learned through whispered half conversations that end when I draw near and resume when the nurses believe me out of earshot. Of course, I am a newcomer and they cannot be sure of my loyalties, and gossip always has a way of circulating back to its subject, given enough time. Ironic, as I have had no traffic with her as of yet, but her reputation and temperament makes her a target for everyone beneath her. That, in turn, makes her a perfect scapegoat, should anything go wrong.

Given sufficient time, something always goes wrong. I know that better than most.

**July 7**

Death is an everyday occurrence in the hospital, despite the best efforts of the physicians and surgeons, the nurses and orderlies, the midwives and volunteers. This crowded city, with its polluted river and choking air, is as good a breeding ground for pestilence as a chemist’s plate of agar. The Germ Theory of Disease has only recently gathered a foothold among the learned medical men, historically speaking. Those without a medical education are even less inclined to change their habits, even if it would save their own skin.

What this means, personally, is a tremendous number of bodies to dispose of. I am positive I have done something irrevocably destructive to my back today, but I managed to keep a brave face and hobble home. If only I could afford something to take the edge off of the pain.

**July 8**

My back is no better, but the work is not as strenuous. A volunteer by the name of Violet has been helping out in a non-medical capacity. Mostly she sits with the hopeless cases while life ebbs, but she also takes up some of light lifting so there is less labor involved on my end. I can only hope this does not result in a trend where the hospital fires me and replaces me with compassionate souls working for free.

**July 9**

My worries were baseless, but at a terrible price. The hospital swells with the sick and dying like a gangrenous wound. Cholera, typhoid fever, pneumonia, diseases whose names I do not recognize when the doctors congregate to discuss medical matters. Dust masks soaked in a foul smelling antiseptic solution are required of all staff. I am taking no chances, as I have no desire to spend more than ten hours out of every twenty four in that wretched place.

My back is not improving and I can take no time to rest, nor can I afford medicine to make it more tolerable until I get paid tomorrow.

**July 10**

The last mile is the longest. Today stretched before me like an endless desert. But at last I reached the oasis of remuneration. I spent somewhat incautiously after work, but I feel it was well worth it, in that I no longer feel that my spine has been twisted into a knot.

Still, if I am to keep this position, I must keep up with its demands, meaning I must find a way to fortify my ailing body against further injury. Somehow.

A problem to solve tomorrow. Tonight, I expect the first uninterrupted night of sleep I have had for a month or more. Of all the miracles of the modern chemical industry, I think laudanum may be the most laudable. (Hah!)

**July 11**

I saw Violet in my dreams last night.

There was a road at night, with the full moon lighting the way until a vast thicket blocked out all light. I got lost several times, traveling in circles it seemed, until I stumbled into a clearing with an ancient well in the center, overgrown with vines and fungus and almost certainly polluted. Violet was standing there, but I did not recognize her until she turned around.

The inside of the well was not even filled with water, but with blood. I can only assume that my experiences at the hospital have something to do with that particular imagery. What I cannot explain is why I cupped my hands and brought it to my lips, but dreams are not known for following the logic of the waking world anyway. Violet said something I could not understand after I had slaked my thirst, and then I awoke.

Imagery and symbolism aside, what truly unsettles me is the clarity of the dream, the vivid sights and sounds and sensations. Dreams are notorious for being accepted at face value until the dreamer awakens, regardless of the irrationality of the contents. Buildings grow extra rooms or floors, doorways span gaps of miles, the dead return or never died to begin with; all taken in stride. This was different, and the only possible explanation I can think of is the laudanum. Perhaps I should keep my distance from it for the time being; fortunately, my back is no longer forcing me to contort my body into an agonized knot.

It has been hard to keep my mind on my work today, as my mind wandered back to last night’s dream time and again. I am fortunate that nothing was broken due to my chronic inattention, though with the teeming masses of the ill I doubt that the hospital can even afford to terminate my employment for anything less than the most egregious of faults and failures.

Another curious fact: I did not seen Violet at all today. Of course, she is a volunteer and so her schedule is not subject to the same necessities as mine.

**July 12**

Unsettling developments. Violet was absent at the hospital again today, despite the scale of the work that needed to be done. I was able to keep up without overexerting myself, this time at least. After work I felt entitled to a certain amount of largess and frivolity, even in my current financial state, so I stopped on the way home for a pint and meat pie. No sooner did I make my wishes known to the barkeep that somebody took the seat beside me and attempt to make idle conversation, in that way that one does when one has an ulterior motive that must be approached from an oblique angle.

After pleasantries were sufficiently addressed, the mysterious gentleman began asking searching questions about Violet. And such questions! I could understand a detective employed by the police, or privately for that matter, asking questions about dates and times to establish an alibi, or a standard of living that is below or above an individual’s expected wages, or obvious signs of conflict and combat through the form of injuries and scars. I’ve read my share of Doyle and Poe; I know how things are done. Asking me about the hair styling and grooming habits of a woman I have known less than a week is not how things are done, much less asking me if I believed in ghosts and haunting, and how familiar I am with Vitalism, and those were simply the references that I understood.

I do not know if the answers he received from me were satisfactory or not, as he left quite abruptly after finishing his drink. I would like to know who he was, and why he was asking such questions, and what answers he expected me to provide for him; alas, I had finished my repast and walked out the door before the thought occurred to me that perhaps I should have followed him. It is almost certainly better that I did not; I have no idea what that man (or Violet) are mixed up in.

But if I am being questioned by strangers, I may already be mixed up in it myself.


End file.
